


Grass

by wrabbit



Series: Floriography [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cigarettes, Dom/sub, Gen, Handcuffs, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, M/M, Non-Sexual Bondage, Non-Sexual Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 10:15:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1144774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrabbit/pseuds/wrabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg receives a text: <i>Come if convenient. Bring cuffs.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Grass

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed (and much improved!) by thirdbird.

Greg was half-heartedly reading a novel in bed when his mobile rescued him from the protagonist's mid-life crisis. It chimed with the distinctive alert noise he used for Sherlock, who had what Greg could only describe as a gift for emergencies. He set his reading glasses on the bedside table and reached for the phone as the screen dimmed. 

_Come if convenient. Bring cuffs._

For a second Greg wasn't sure what Sherlock meant; was he about to confront a suspect? But there was no address and it wasn't like Sherlock to make requests. Had someone broken into Baker Street? 

Then Greg knew. He suddenly remembered the last time Sherlock had asked anything of him involving cuffs and tried to recall how long it had been -- at least a year -- while he automatically tapped out a reply.

_Be right there._

It was already quarter past eleven and he had been hoping to get to sleep by midnight. He still could do, maybe, if Sherlock wasn't in a state. Exchanging pyjama bottoms for jeans, Greg started packing his gym bag with what he needed for the night and, after a second's hesitation, the neat coils of rope he had buried at the bottom of his chest of drawers. 

The first time, it had just been the cuffs. Sherlock had been coming down from a cocaine high, suffering from the unfocused, overwhelming energy that drove the already half-mad man and everyone around him barmy when Sherlock was left with nothing to do but let his mind run wild off the rails. Unable to sleep, he would refuse any comfort except the chemical kind for days on end and nearly drive his flatmate, if he had a flat at the time, to murder. 

Greg had been coming to see Sherlock about a robbery when he first found him lying on his old couch, not even bothering to try to hide the little bag of pills on the the coffee table when Greg walked in. Incensed, Greg had forced him to stand up, held him up when he refused, and flushed the morphine himself before cuffing Sherlock right there on the grimy linoleum when he couldn't stop scratching at a healing patch of road rash he'd received on the back of his shoulder during the last case. 

Sherlock had swayed suddenly on his feet and ended up with his face pressed into Greg's shoulder, muttering his first words that night, "I can't sleep."

"Alright," Greg had said, awkwardly patting his back as he held them both up in the middle of the tiny bathroom. "Let's get you to bed." 

Ignoring Sherlock's protestations of incurable boredom, Greg had forced him to lie down with his hands cuffed in front of him to stop him picking. Then he had just sat there, on the bed with his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, wondering what to do, when Sherlock fell into a dead sleep and started drooling on the duvet. 

Months later, Sherlock had moved, got a new flatmate in a stream of them, and Greg had cuffed him to stop him from the frenetic pacing that was giving Greg a sympathetic headache. "Better?" he remembered asking, when Sherlock had been forced to stop and then sit on the couch next to Greg with his hands behind his back, staring straight ahead.

Sherlock's shoulders had dropped until his forehead was brushing his knees. 

"There, there." Greg had rubbed his arm and lit a cigarette while Sherlock sniffed and rubbed his nose on his trouser leg. "You're just bored." 

But it wasn't boredom, not really, Greg thought as he dropped a scarf from his coat rack on the top of the contents of the bag, pulling his winter coat on. It was a week-long panic attack and lack of sleep and somehow, in the past four years, Greg had become the person who put Sherlock Holmes to bed. 

There was still a decent amount of snow on the ground outside and Greg had to step carefully to avoid the puddles on the pavement reflecting the halogen lamps and windows up above. The drive to Baker Street was barely long enough to heat up the interior of the old car. Greg shivered in his coat as he collected his bag and locked the doors. Looking up at the sitting room lamp in the window of 221B, Greg was reminded suddenly of the last time he had seen Sherlock, at his and John's first Christmas party. He shook his head, grimacing slightly in embarrassment as he climbed the steps quietly so as not to disturb Mrs Hudson. He wasn't exactly not speaking to Sherlock, but he hadn't seen him in a month and a half and part of him wondered why the man was even calling him for this odd little ritual now that he had his doctor friend to look out for him.

Sherlock was up in his chair, staring at John's empty one when Greg let himself in. His gaze rose slowly from the upholstery to Greg. "Hello," Greg whispered. He eased himself in and shut the door. "Where's John?" 

Sherlock stared at him, his expression as smooth and remote as one of the icy puddles outside. "You came," he commented in a raspy, disused voice. 

"Of course I came," Greg answered quietly. He approached slowly to get a better look at Sherlock, setting his bag down in Watson's empty chair. "John?" he asked again, "John Watson."

"Out." Sherlock's fingertips twitched against the arm of his chair. He was still staring at Greg like he couldn't quite reconcile whatever play was being performed in his own mind and what was happening right in front of his eyes.

"Ah," Greg answered. "Alright, then. So, when's the last time you slept?"

Sherlock frowned and he stood up suddenly, his movements all energy and anxiety, clearing his throat. 

"You shouldn't have-- I can't--," he said, waving an arm at Greg. He turned away to pace toward the window where he paused and ruffled his hair fitfully. 

Greg sighed. "Well, I'm not going out there again," he said, and planted his feet on the carpet. "Now let's just go. I'm tired, Sherlock. Come on." 

Swivelling to look at him, Sherlock warned, "It won't work," but his shoulders were hunched in  
exhaustion. 

"Let's see, shall we?" 

Greg exhaled in relief when Sherlock finally turned and shuffled into his bedroom. He pulled his bag over his shoulder and turned to follow. It had been over a year since Greg had done this. He'd supposed that Sherlock had thought better of it, changed, found another way. He was half-convinced it was a bad idea himself. A fluke of the past. The kind of thing people did without thinking for ages that, when something reminded them of it years later, baffled them and made them uncomfortable, wondering why it ever made sense or why they seemed to get away without questioning it for so long.

Greg left the bedroom door cracked and turned around to take off his shoes and shed his trousers again, already damp from the brief walk through the streets. A green sprig of holly, lying incongruously on top of Sherlock's dresser, brought the memories back. He wasn't even a fucking gym teacher she was seeing. He was a yoga instructor. 

"Your attitude at Christmas. That wasn't necessary," Greg remarked quietly, trying for wry and falling short as he finished pulling a pair of red flannel pyjama bottoms over his hips. He didn't quite look up at Sherlock, who was lounging on his back on his perfectly made bed under the yellow light of the lamp.

Sherlock didn't ask him what he meant and Greg wasn't sure he had the self-control to start, but it stirred in his stomach. He crouched down to start filling his bag with his street clothes and take other things out, remembering to pull out two cigarettes from the pack he had been saving in his glove compartment and redeposit them in the pocket of his pyjama bottoms with the lighter. "The truth?" Sherlock said.

Greg changed his mind at that quiet comment. "No," he said more strongly. He took out handcuffs and the cashmere scarf, borrowed from Sherlock years ago, and left the neat coils of soft rope in the bottom of the bag. "Call me a liar if you want, but I don't have to put up with your shit."

Sherlock took his phone out of his pocket and set it on the bedside table. He seemed more alert than when Greg had arrived and was watching Greg with a neutral expression as he adjusted his socks and stood up. 

"Why lie?"

"I don't know," Greg replied. "Just did." He supposed he was used to it, the polite untruths, the evasions designed to avoid an embarrassing conversation ever since before the first separation. He didn't want a crowd patting his back over the drawn-out demise of his marriage, at Christmas, again. Probably shouldn't have told them they were getting back together, though. He exhaled slowly and reached into his pocket to feel the cigarettes and lighter, tucking the scarf and cuffs with their keys in the other. 

Anger and embarrassment sunk away, weariness and resentment flooding to the top as he examined Sherlock. He was in his pyjamas and outwardly relaxed where he sat leaning against his pillow and the headboard, ankles crossed halfway down the bed. His eyes, however, were bloodshot and tired, disclosing exhaustion and chronic pain and a mind overburdened with sleepless hours and something else. The misgivings apparent in his eyes before had given way to a kind of patience, expectation even, as he had watched Greg perform the usual routine. 

"Come here," Greg said unnecessarily and he padded over to sit on the side of the bed. He folded one leg up as he turned to take both of Sherlock's wrists in his hands. Sherlock watched him closely as he took Sherlock's offered left wrist in his palm before gently closing and tightening the cuff around it, followed by the other.

"Lie down a bit," Greg encouraged him. He watched Sherlock wriggle further toward the centre of the mattress and down the bed until his shoulders were resting against the pillow, linked hands on his stomach. 

Greg shifted onto the side of bed and leaned back against the headboard, sighing as he made himself comfortable. He stared down at the level of his socks and Sherlock's slightly bent knees, watched Sherlock rub his own wrist in slow motion, a little locus of restless energy. With a sigh Greg closed the distance between them and grabbed a fistful of curly dark hair, pulling a little, just enough to make Sherlock breathe out heavily and drop his chin to give him more access. Greg rubbed his scalp for a while, sometimes twining his fingers through the longer soft curls on the back and top of Sherlock's head and tugging. Sherlock's fingers stopped moving and he started to lean towards Greg. 

When Sherlock's shoulder was pressed warmly against Greg's side and he was breathing slow, deep breaths, eyes weighed half-shut, Greg reached with his free hand for the scarf that was tucked into his pocket. Sherlock made a small noise, his brow twitching in concern or pain as Greg encouraged him to lean forward a little with a hand on his back so that he could wrap the scarf around Sherlock’s head and tie it snugly in the back. Sherlock went easier after the distraction of sight was closed off to him, sinking until his head was resting on Greg's thigh. 

Greg let him rest. He placed one hand on Sherlock's shoulder and leaned his head back against the wall. 221B was quiet and calm around them in Sherlock's room, almost impersonal compared to the cluttered sitting room except that it smelled like Sherlock and felt comfortable and lived in. Greg could feel himself sinking into into sleepiness and he hoped the same for Sherlock who was giving in so easily, despite his doubts and despite how long it had been, without a sarcastic remark or token resistance to be found. 

He touched Sherlock's back over his t-shirt. "Hands." 

Sherlock shifted sleepily, until the back of his head was resting against Greg's thigh and he could raise his hands for Greg to unlock. He rolled over onto his stomach without a word. 

Greg straddled his back without thinking and held Sherlock’s wrists again before linking them at the small of his back and raising one hand to rub Sherlock between his shoulder blades with his knuckles.

Sherlock's breathing grew unsteady for the first time that night as Gerg soothed him. He breathed in sharply through his nose, ribcage expanding, and after a long pause, let it out, only slightly ragged. He fought for equilibrium while Greg kept rubbing his back and the scarf caught any tears that escaped. Even now this was hard for Sherlock, Greg realised in such moments. By the time Greg arrived, Sherlock was always tired beyond trying anymore, or nearly there, but it must still hurt to release the high tension that remained in the wake of all that cannibalising energy that tore through and pushed him to lash out and keep lashing out until he didn't have any more to give and called Greg. 

And he felt guilty, that he couldn't just lock his emotions down and open himself up to Sherlock before then. He couldn't ever bring himself to feel quite so forgiving, and even tender, like he did now when Sherlock was obviously in a manic rage. Perhaps the storm that controlled him had to drive Sherlock along with everyone in the vicinity into the ground, every time, before it would release him. Perhaps not. 

Looking down at Sherlock's heaving back, his hands submissively relaxed and cupped at the small of his back, not for the first time Greg thought he should be less sensitive to Sherlock's moods. 

Just as well he would always come find him when Sherlock crashed himself. 

Greg pulled out a cigarette and lit it while Sherlock calmed, still resting on his knees over Sherlock's thighs. Careful to keep a hand on Sherlock's back to anchor him, Greg shifted off to lie with his shoulders against the pillow. He guided Sherlock to follow by his arm. It took a while for him to get comfortable against Greg's chest with his hands bound behind his back and he squirmed and shifted fitfully while Greg held the cigarette out of the way until he was lying half on his side, cheek pressed against Greg's shoulder, Greg's arm around his hips. Settling, Sherlock began to mirror Greg's breathing with his escaping hair brushing Greg's ear and neck.

"Alright?" Greg asked him. He reached over to tap ash from the cigarette on the bedside table for Sherlock to clean up later. 

Sherlock made an acknowledging sound, humming with lax pleasure when Greg touched the cigarette to his lips and let him take a drag. He placed his head back down in the crook of Greg's neck to breathe out smoke against Greg's skin while Greg finished the last of the cigarette by himself, wincing when he was forced to put it out on the bedside table; Sherlock would doubtless be irritated with him later.

The last thing Greg did before turning out the light and settling down with Sherlock pressing him into the bed was to unlock Sherlock's wrists and pull his arm to rest over his own waist. It shouldn't have been comfortable, but Greg had been ready to sleep before he had arrived and Sherlock's drowsy bonelessness was contagious, as was Sherlock sighing in time with the expanding of Greg's chest. Greg felt himself begin to drift to the gentle rhythm of slow, even breathing gusting against his neck.


End file.
